


Roaring With The Thunder And The Wind

by skyline



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: 1995ish probably, Cisco runs away for cake, M/M, Time Travel, mostly banter and fluff until the end, not an AltUniverse, or he finds Barry intriguing, season one, there is a possibility Harrison is just horny, whichever is more romantic, younger Cisco, younger Wells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-24 15:29:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6158197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barry gives him his biggest, cheesiest smile. “Are you going to take me home, or are you stalling?”</p><p>“When you say it like that, it almost sounds like a proposition.”</p><p>Barry feels the words like a punch to the gut. Without thinking, he answers, “Who says it isn’t?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“So then, Caitlin outed me to the entire class trip! Half of Central City knows I’m the Flash.”

Oliver laughs, sharp static on the line. “You’re the one who told _me_ to wear a mask.”

“Hey, the mask is effective. Don’t knock the mask.” Barry kicks back in his chair, swiveling in a circle. “Maybe I need new friends.”

The laughter turns into full-on chortling. “Like you could find other people who would put up with you.”

“ _Thanks_ , Ollie. Seriously. Is sass part and parcel of being a vigilante, or does that come extra?”

“It’s a bonus.” Barry can actually hear Oliver’s fond eye roll. “And hey, Felicity had some special on Channel Six about how great the Flash is running in my superhero lair today, so I think we’ve all suffered equally.”

Barry puffs up his chest and smothers a grin. Oliver can’t see him, but the guy’s got a sixth sense for, er. Pretty much everything. To cover, Barry says, “I’m a pretty cool guy.”

Oliver snickers, not even deigning to reply.

“Hey! I am!” Barry protests.

The conversation between them flows easy, the unaccustomed lightness surrounding Oliver Queen carrying across the six hundred miles that separate their cities. Barry is glad that he almost sounds happy.

It’s hard, at times. Watching someone he admires and cares for suffer under the crushing weight of their own conscience. For the briefest of moments, Oliver is distracted from all that, explaining how Felicity and Dig are trying to turn Team Arrow into the sunshine and happiness Flash brigade, when there is a…rumble…outside of Joe’s house.

“Uh. Ollie? I’mma have to put you on hold for a sec.”

Barry doesn’t bother waiting for a reply, dashing outside before the phone can even hit the floor.

There’s a space ship in the Wests’ front yard. It’s not the weirdest thing Barry’s ever seen – and how messed up is that, that a _spaceship_ in his _front yard_ is a normal Tuesday – but it’s suspicious. Barry is definitely having some suspect feelings, here.

He tries knocking on the front door, just to be polite, but all that gets him is a dull thud and some bruised knuckles in reply.

The black and blue bits heal as quickly as they came. The spaceship doesn’t budge. Huh.

Barry pokes it, just for kicks, trying to ascertain whether or not an explosion is imminent, or _something_. Spaceships don’t just land to taunt people.

Do they?

“Hello?” Barry calls.

He can feel his face contorting into an expression somewhere between befuddled and irritated. It’s the face Barry has when he doesn’t understand something, the one that Iris lovingly calls _essence of nerd-rage_.

This is…Yeah, this is a frustrating thing.

Barry scratches his head, glancing around. He can’t possibly be the only person interested in this interstellar phenomena, but if anyone in the neighborhood cares, they’re watching from their windows and letting the Flash handle it. So.

That’s it.

He’s on his own here.

Barry’s about to remedy that, patching into Cisco, wherever he might be on this fine evening, when the spaceship’s engines begin to whine.

Moving is probably the thing to do, but Barry stays stock still, watching. Opportunities to observe a real, live spaceship fly come few and far between. Probably. This might not be the weirdest thing he’s ever seen, but it’s not exactly in his wheelhouse, either.

He waits as the ship trembles to life, fully planning on booking it before possibly-alien engines deep fry him.

Only, the tremors of the ship like, vibrate out into the air. They knock Barry out of alignment for just long enough that when he begins to run, it’s like moving through goop; thick and viscous. He barely makes it out from under the wings of the ship before it disappears, and Barry skids out onto the pavement, asphalt flying.

The streetlights flicker, humming disconcertingly before they stabilize. Interference, Barry guesses. He glances up at the sky, expecting to see the lumbering shape of the ship as it blots out the stars.

But there’s nothing.

And that’s a thing that just happened. Barry shakes his head, wondering absently what kind of propulsion the ship’s got going on, his inner scientist caught up in the intricacies of electrical systems versus natural fuels versus fusion reactors when he reaches the front door of Joe’s house. He twists the knob.

It doesn’t budge.

Odd. He could swear he left it unlocked.

He tries again. Nothing.

Barry is about to go scouting for the spare key when he notices that something isn’t quite right. Particularly, the front door. Which is not the same color as it was when he came home from work today.

That could mean anything from the sudden onset of color-blindness to a metahuman with fingerpainting powers.

The part where all the lights are on inside, though. That’s another thing that isn’t the way he left it.

Barry blinks, and then he blinks again. Through the picture window, he glimpses a little girl with flyaway hair. She runs past, a toy airplane perched in her hand.

Um. Barry definitely didn’t leave _her_ in there.

He’s about to knock, to ask the strange little creature to open the door for him, when it hits him. He knows that face. He knows those eyes. He knows that little girl.

It’s Iris, circa age six, and that means…

Well. Shit.

* * *

 

There’s no wormhole, but the speed force still tingles in his veins. As far as setbacks go, this one is minor. Barry can build up enough speed to slingshot himself back into the future, no problem.

That’s a thing. He thinks. The recent tsunami was his first and only real experience with time travel, so he’s going to cross his fingers and hope that it’s a thing.

Of course, his chances of getting back before Oliver loses his patience and hangs up are close to nil, but Barry plans on trying anyway. No one likes an arrow in their soft parts.

Barry, in particular, is averse to them.

He’s on his toes, primed to run, when a noise pierces the night’s tranquility.

Noise isn’t quite the right word. It’s more like a steady stream of cursing, “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” emanating from the corner of the street.

The guy saying it doesn’t sound like he’s in the Flash’s kind of trouble, exactly. But there’s something about the tone of his voice that makes Barry’s inner Good Samaritan sit up and beg. He’s got his cowl pushed back and he’s making his way towards the commotion before his brain can even catch up.

He has that problem a lot.

“Hey, man. Are you alright?” Barry calls. The guy – he’s a kid, really, right around Barry’s age, and stuck in that weird in-between where he’s gawky like a twenty-something, but his jawline marks him as a man – frowns.

“Do I _sound_ alright?”

Barry holds up his hands. “It was a question. Which I rescind.”

Anger-Management Issues mutters something grumpy under his breath. Barry waits patiently for an explanation or to be told summarily to fuck off.

Neither happens. “What, are you going to a costume party or something?”

“What d’you-“ Barry glances down at his suit, realization dawning. “Oh. Um. Yeah. Something like that.”

“And you’re supposed to be…? Tight leather-pants guy?”

Snorting, Barry says, “That’s the best you can do?”

Cisco would be so ashamed. There would be protests and indignation, and god, Barry wishes Cisco was here right now.

The man in front of him steps closer, into the halo of a streetlight. “Is this what you do with your time? Accost strangers? Insult them? I don’t need this. I’m having a bad day.”

Except this man-boy isn’t a stranger. Barry can see that now, his jaw practically unhinging with shock.

The dimples are a little less well worn, hair shorter, lines only just beginning to form at the corners of his eyes, but that’s definitely one hundred percent – “Dr. Wells?”

“Do I know you?”

“Yes. I mean no. I mean-“

“Which is it?” Young Wells asks impatiently, and his eyes are every bit as blue as they are in the future. “Bad day, remember?”

“I, uh.” Barry stammers. “I’m honestly not sure what the right answer is, here.”

Well sticks out his hand. “I’m Harrison Wells.”

“Barry Allen,” Barry says, because his mouth runs away with him, clearly unaware that he’s changing the entire future with every word.

“There. Now we know each other.”

“I guess we do. And I didn’t accost you.”

“What?”

“I was checking to see if you were okay.”

“I-“ Wells scratches behind his ear, almost looking abashed. “I mentioned the bad day thing, right?”

Barry nods, accepting the words as the apology they’re meant to be.

He should leave now, he thinks. He should walk away, before he messes anything else up. But this Wells is fascinating; the ways that he’s changed, and the ways that he hasn’t. Barry’s never really imagined him young, but he’s here, he is, and he’s weirdly attractive in a nerdy kind of way.

After another prolonged period of staring, Wells demands, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

That’s an opening if Barry has ever heard one. Time to speed off into the future, for real this time.

His feet stay firmly planted on the ground. “I don’t. Not really. Why are you having a bad day?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it.”

“You’re very strange.”

“You’re not the first person who has said that,” Barry admits. He throws Wells a grin, the one that Iris calls goofy but secretly likes, and so Barry practices it in a mirror at least three times a day.

Wells purses his lips, not nearly as charmed as he should be. Then he says, “I’m a genius.”

“If you say so.”

Wells continues, “I’m having a day that’s not making me feel like much of one.”

Thinking on it, Barry glances at the sky. The foliage, the moon, and the thin tracery of clouds; all of it mean one thing.

Summer.

He says, “You know what helps when you’re having a day like that?”

Intrigued, Wells asks, “What?”

* * *

 

“Funnel cake. Funnel cake was your answer to making me feel better.”

Barry grins, shoveling his fifth funnel cake into his mouth a little too fast to not be super human. Wells stares at him in open-mouthed disgust, but if he notices Barry’s abnormal speed, he doesn’t mention it.

He doesn’t walk away, either. Wells stands tall and proud and haughty, thoroughly disillusioned with all of his life choices, probably, but he still stands there. Watching Barry eat funnel cake.

He footed the bill, even, after following Barry all the way through Central City to the annual Firemen’s Fair. This younger Harrison Wells clearly has no fear of strangers or imminent death.

Barry thinks that that hasn’t changed at all. He asks, “Is it helping?”

“No.”

“Try some.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Come on.” Barry pops some of the sugary dough against Wells’s mouth, enjoying the bizarre turn his life has taken. “It’ll help. Promise.”

Wells’s lips part, brushing against Barry’s fingers as he takes the stupid funnel cake. He chews slow, and then swallows deliberately. “I’m not sure if I like you.”

“You do,” Barry decides, showing too many teeth. “We should go on a ride.”

“You’re going to hurl,” Wells protests. His lips are pink and coated in sugar, and slightly plusher than Barry remembers.

He chases that thought away and retorts, “I’m not.”

“You just ate your weight in funnel cake.”

“I’m still hungry,” Barry replies, all brightness and cheer. There’s something inherently fun about this Wells, something about him that makes Barry want to tease and push and press on his barriers. It’s a strange thing to feel with someone he’s just met, but this is Harrison Wells. He saves Barry’s life, so many years from now, and maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s just nice to not be indebted to him, for once. He asks, “Why don’t I freak you out?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a total stranger. I could hack you into bits. I could have an axe.”

“Not in that suit.” Wells stares unabashedly. “Thing’s skintight.”

It almost sounds like a come on, which is pretty much impossible.

Barry argues, “Still. I could be scary.”

“Please. You look like one of those baby hedgehogs.” When Barry blinks, Wells barrels on, “You know, in the silly calendars, when they put hats on baby hedgehogs? That’s you.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, but I’m taking it as one.”

“Do what you want.” Wells crosses his arms. His dark hair is a little longer than in the future, windswept and sticking up in too many directions. He looks a lot like, well, Barry, after a night in the forensics lab, or running without his cowl. “Which ride do you want to go on?”

“I like the one where you stick to the walls,” Barry says. Then he thinks about it, because he can stick to walls now, pretty much, if he goes fast enough. “Or the ones that go upside down.”

“Upside down it is. Hold onto your pocket change.” Wells gives him a dubious frown, scanning slow and purposeful up and down the length of Barry’s body. “If you have any.”

Smirking, Barry says, “I’m getting the sense you don’t like my suit.”

“Au contraire.” Wells meets his eyes, and in the electric light of the Ferris Wheel, his dimples are practically bottomless. Barry swallows. “It gives me a great view of your ass.”

Wells saunters in the direction of the Zipper, with its twisted, terrifying cages of death.

Barry doesn’t follow. He murmurs, to the empty, sparkling air, “My _ass_?”

* * *

 

Wells does not love the Zipper.

Barry doesn’t puke, but it’s a close thing, and Wells knows it. He watches him through wary, disgruntled eyes the entire time they loop de loop through the air. And, when they finally stumble off the ride, Barry green in the face, Wells says, “You’re terrible at cheering people up.”

Barry crosses his arms over his chest, the ground moving up and down and up again. Stupid ground. “You still haven’t told me why you’re having a bad day.”

Wells frowns at him. “I’m a scientist.”

“Good for you.” Barry concentrates very hard, trying to make his legs less wobbly.

“A physicist, among other things. A really good one.”

It’s ridiculous; speedsters should be immune to ride-induced vertigo. Barry says, “That’s the spirit.”

“Can you be serious? For a single moment?”

Barry considers it, meeting Wells’s gaze. He’s the one steady thing there, in the whole carnival, and Barry latches onto that, fixing his gaze on Wells’s face. “I’m not sure. I’ve never tried.”

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Wells huffs.

“Yep. Loosen up.”

That has the opposite effect Barry wants. Wells makes an enraged noise. Over the sounds of screeching metal and screaming children and shrieking teenagers, he practically shouts, “I don’t need to loosen up. What I need is for this stupid decision to be the right one!”

At least now they’re getting somewhere. Barry leans against the blessedly still, metal façade of a hot dog trailer and asks, “What decision is that, Dr. Wells?”

“Harrison,” Wells snaps. Then, like a balloon losing most of its air, he deflates. “Moving to Central City.”

“When did that happen?”

“Three weeks ago.” Wells’s shoulders sag even lower. “I can’t find a job. My friend Tina says it serves me right. We were working R&D at Queen Consolidated, but funny story about that; I got fired.”

Barry almost chokes on his own spit. “You. Got fired? You, Harrison Wells?”

Wells gives him a strange look. “While your faith in me is overwhelming, people who have known me for longer than five minutes might contest that I’m not the most…docile…employee.”

“Why’d you get fired?”

“I was smarter than my boss.” Wells tilts his head up and almost looks proud. “So I came here and decided to start over.”

“Right, but.” There’s got to be more to this. Barry asks, “What did you leave behind?”

“What makes you think I left anything behind?”

Barry rolls his eyes.

Defeated by the sheer power of disdain, Wells says, “My best friend. Tess. She’s in Maryland, launching her own lab. She’s twenty six and she’s got her own startup, can you believe that? She’s _incredible_.”

“Somebody’s got a crush,” Barry singsongs, knowing full well how all of that ends.

“Bite your tongue.”

Barry opens his mouth and sticks his tongue between his teeth, but that does nothing more than piss Wells off. This version of him is so much crotchetier than the Dr. Wells Barry knows.

It’s weird how old age seems to have mellowed him out.

Wells says, “She was in Maryland.”

“What?”

“Tess,” he emphasizes, impatiently. “Tess _was_ in Maryland. Now she’s here. On my couch. And she won’t leave.”

“Did you ask nicely?”

Witheringly, Wells replies, “I even tried saying please.”

“She’s staying forever. I don’t know what else to tell you.” Barry grins. The metal of the hot dog vendor’s stand is surprisingly cool against the suit. He can feel the chill of it, like it’s almost touching his skin. He breathes the night air in deeply and tries to remember when he last had down time.

Before the coma, most likely.

Almost mournful, Wells says, “She wants me to join her lab.”

“That’s a bad thing?” Barry asks.

For someone who marries the woman soon enough, Wells doesn’t seem overjoyed by her presence.

“I want to see if I can make it on my own.” Wells doesn’t waver when he says it. He’s so open and so earnest that Barry is startled, wondering what he’s done to earn this man’s trust. “Tess and I could build something great, but I don’t want to rely on my best friend for the rest of my life. I don’t want to drag her down. I want to be the kind of man that she and I can be proud of.”

That’s…pretty fucking incredible, actually. Barry feels the sentiment in his bones, and not for the first time, he thinks he’s chosen his heroes wisely.

Trying his best to sound reassuring, he says, “So don’t work with her. You’ll find a new job.”

“Probably,” Wells admits. He’s got this blaze in his eyes, this determination that Barry recognizes. He sees it in himself, when he’s got no plans on giving up. “In the meantime, Tess in on my couch, and my landlord wants to evict me.”

“You’re really weaving a tangled web here with this story.”

“I do experiments.”

“In your apartment?”

“I haven’t got anywhere else to do experiments.” Wells peers up at the night sky, the stars dim under the fog of light pollution. “There are fumes.”

“That can’t be healthy.”

“Probably not.”

“Poor Tess,” Barry grieves.

“Poor Bunion,” Wells counters.

This conversation is giving Barry whiplash. “Who’s Bunion?”

“My cat.”

“You have a cat?”

“My cat has a me. It came through the window one night when I was trying to let out the fumes, and it won’t leave.”

“Like Tess.”

“She’s bigger than the cat,” Wells sniffs.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea.”

“You are the arbiter of terrible ideas. What is it?”

“If my ideas are so terrible,” Barry asks, “Why do you keep listening to them?”

“You have to have an okay one at some point.”

“Show me your apartment,” Barry prompts, and he doesn’t even know why he’s asking. He needs to go home. He needs to not fuck with things any more than he already has.

If only this tiny voice in the back of his head wasn’t whispering for him to stay.

Wells grimaces at him. “Nope. Still terrible.”

“Oh, come on. Why is that one bad?”

“Tess will like you.”

“I’m sure I’ll like Tess.”

“You’ll stay on my couch forever, too.”

Barry says, “I’m not sure if there’s enough room for me and Tess.”

“And Bunion,” Wells says. “He’s not the thinnest cat.”

“Maybe he doesn’t leave because you feed him.”

“Christ,” Wells replies. “You might be onto something. I’ve fed you, and you’re still here.”

Barry gives him his biggest, cheesiest smile. “Are you going to take me home, or are you stalling?”

“When you say it like that, it almost sounds like a proposition.”

Barry feels the words like a punch to the gut. Without thinking, he answers, “Who says it isn’t?”

Idly, Barry thinks that this is probably how he destroys the time stream.

It doesn’t stop him from trailing after Wells and his enigmatic smile, calling, “So why’d you name the cat Bunion?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry listens, chasing the last of his mac and cheese around the shape of the rocket ship, and avoids thinking about pertinent things.
> 
> Like what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

Bunion is not an agreeable cat.

Attractive, yes, with cool, dark eyes that disappear into puffs of untamed gray fluff. His fur makes him appear the approximate size of a really fat corgi. But agreeable?

Not so much, Barry thinks, trying to pry the cat’s claws from his face.

Dryly, Wells makes introductions. “Bunion, this is Barry Allen. Barry, meet Satan’s spawn.”

Tess Morgan, by contrast, doesn’t pay Barry any mind. She’s sitting cross-legged on Wells’s floor in a pair of ratty sweatpants, squinting at a white board she’s propped unceremoniously against Wells’s couch like it’s done something to offend her. The board is chock full of equations that Barry only half-follows, although if he had a book on quantum mechanics and five minutes he could probably play catch up.

Wells plucks up the pencil she’s got tucked in her messy blonde bun and smacks her head with the eraser end. “We’ve got a guest.”

“I noticed,” Tess replies, without ever turning her head. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Barry replies, smothering a laugh. She’s not anything like he expected from the wife-to-be of the calm, sophisticated Dr. Wells he knows in the future.

“Bunion likes you.”

“You think?”

Barry tries again, futilely, to get the cat to release its clawed death-grip on him, because he feels a little ridiculous adding this new appendage to his face. Bunion, for his part, seems content to hang out.

“He’s into strays. A lot like Harrison.” Tess shrugs her shoulders, a fluid motion, and then swings around to face him. Abruptly, Barry understands why Wells marries her; she’s absolutely breathtaking. Her eyes are the bluest thing Barry’s ever seen.

It’s a shame that she dies, he thinks guiltily.

Wells’s biography barely touches on the subject, outside of the front page dedication to his _first and only love, Tess_ , but between the book and Joe, Barry knows all about the tragic car crash that claimed her.

It’s a miracle that Dr. Wells survived, and Barry is so, so grateful for that.

“Nice to meet you, Barry,” Tess says, leaning back on her palms. “Costume convention?”

“Something like that,” Barry agrees. “I hear you’ve got squatter’s rights.”

Tess shifts her weight so that she can pat the couch fondly. “It’s beginning to feel just like home.”

“None of that. You have to leave eventually,” Wells chides. “You’re interrupting my work.”

His words are harsh. But he tucks the pencil back into Tess’s hair, gentle, the way that future-Wells would be.

It’s the first sign Barry’s seen of the man he’s come to know, the one whose voice quietly encourages him through the earpiece whenever he’s feeling low and defeated.

The thought reminds him of how angry _that_ Dr. Wells will be when Barry gets back to his own time.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was so damn imperative that you get some peace and quiet.” Tess cuts her eyes towards Bunion. “You hear that, cat? Harry doesn’t love us anymore.”

“All I said was that you’re interrupting-“

“Nothing. I’m interrupting nothing,” Tess smoothly steamrolls over Wells’s protests. She gestures grandly around the apartment. “And you know how I know that? Because all you’ve seen fit to do is nearly burn this place to the ground.”

“It’d be an improvement,” Wells sniffs.

Tess allows, “The décor leaves something to be desired. But that’s not the point, and you know it.”

It’s an old argument. Barry would be able to tell that even if Wells hadn’t given him the rundown on why Tess was couch surfing. She clearly cares a great deal about what the good doctor is doing with his life.

It’s the way Iris talks to Barry, whenever he’s feeling wayward.

That said, it’s a little uncomfortable to watch.

“Hey, you know what’s great? Food,” Barry says, a hopeful note in his voice.

“Five funnel cakes, Allen. Five.” Wells counts off his fingers, demonstrating for Barry what a ridiculous number of funnel cakes five is. Then he offsets his entire annoyed countenance by offering, “There’s mac and cheese in the cupboard. It comes from a box, but-“

“Food!”

Barry’s delighted.

He finds the kitchen all on his own, because the apartment gives shoeboxes a run for their money. Over the sound of Tess and Wells bickering, he rummages Wells’s shelves until he comes up with a box of Easy Mac. The just add water formula was an old college staple, and what it lacks in taste, it makes up for in carbs.

“Just what the speedster ordered,” Barry murmurs to Bunion.

The cat’s hind legs are needling into his shoulder, but it seems to have gotten over its enchantment with Barry’s face. He is currently claw free, which is awesome.

Sans super healing, he’d probably need some kind of smelly anti-bacterial ointment, but he’s got the former, so: even more awesome.

Barry puts on a pot of water to boil, ignoring whatever is already crusted on the bottom of the metal, and feels a general sense of satisfaction about life.

In the other room, there is a thud, like a book being thrown.

Hmm.

Nope. Not going in there, he decides. Contentedly, he pets at Bunion’s raised hackles and watches the water glisten in the kitchen’s dim light.

* * *

 

Wells finds him leaning against the counter, flipping through a cookbook that looks to be handwritten; perhaps by one of Wells’s ancient relatives.

Alternately, it’s worn enough to be a thrift store find, but somehow, Barry can’t imagine a man with Easy Mac in his cupboards diligently checking the shelves of Goodwill for lessons on homemade chicken noodle soup.

“I’m sorry about that. Tess thinks she’s the boss of me.”

“I am the boss of you,” Tess yells from the other room. There’s a little cut out counter that divides the space, and Barry can see her, legs crossed, back to examining the complexities of the white board.

Which he figures is pretty retro of her, until he realizes it’s Nineteen Ninety Something, and no one has a laptop. People probably still have _landlines_.

Ignorant of Barry’s existential crisis, Wells calls back, “Are not.” Then he tells Barry, “I have no idea why I’m apologizing to you. I don’t know anything about you, other than that you’ve got a leather fetish and a bottomless stomach.”

“You like strays,” Barry explains for him, echoing Tess’s words.

He’s smiling despite himself, because he wouldn’t do this in his own time. He’d never intrude on anyone’s privacy or invade their home this way.

Except it’s Dr. Wells, and he’s familiar, and comfortable, and honestly, he doesn’t much seem to mind.

Maybe he really does like strays.

“Sass. You people come into my home and give me sass. Yes, even you,” he adds to Bunion, who hisses when Wells comes too near.

“I’m not smelling any fumes. I was promised a whole plethora of toxic chemicals. Did Tess install better ventilation?”

“Tess threw my lab equipment in the storage space,” Wells grumps. He props his hands on his hips and eyes the cat like it might make a desperate lunge. “She says she threw it out, but I’m not falling for that, _now am I_?”

“You are pretty gullible,” Tess replies calmly, her voice carrying across the counter space.

“There’s a Motel 6, right down the street. I hear it has fine accommodations, Morgan.”

“If I wanted to swallow a cockroach, I’d be staying with Tina,” Tess counters distractedly. She’s going head to head with Wells and most of her attention isn’t even on him. Impressive. “I’m fine right here.”

“What about you?” He asks Barry. “Do I even want to know if you have a place to stay tonight?”

Barry laughs. It’s louder than he means it to be, bouncing around the small kitchen. “That’s not an offer, is it? Because I’ve gotta say, your instinct for self-preservation is actually nonexistent.”

Wells gestures to the suit. “We’ve established you can’t hide an axe in there.”

“I’m standing in your kitchen,” Barry points out. “It’s full of knives.”

“Most of them are made of plastic.”

Barry had noticed that. Wells has to be somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, but his eating habits are clearly nowhere near the (usually) refined tastes of Dr. Wells circa 2015.

A lot can change in some odd twenty years.

Barry takes that to mean that he’ll give up things like instant ramen and Lucky Charms when he hits forty, and the thought sends a twinge of nostalgia up his spine.

He _enjoys_ instant ramen and Lucky Charms. They are the staples of forensic scientists worldwide.

“I have somewhere to sleep tonight,” he replies, albeit reluctantly, thinking of his own bed, in his own time.

He’s going to have to give up the ghost and go home sooner rather than later. Before he changes things too irrevocably with Wells, or worse.

It’s not like visiting his parents and begging them to move somewhere tropical hasn’t occurred to him. He’s been fighting the impulse to see his mother’s face for hours.

It’s just…cool, being treated as an equal by someone he considers a mentor.

And it doesn’t hurt that Wells keeps looking at him with this odd light in his eyes, like he thinks Barry might be…interesting. Not scientifically interesting, which likely makes up much of his own Dr. Wells’s keen investment in Barry’s welfare, but interesting as a person. As someone he’d genuinely like to get to know.

Barry wants more of it, and he can’t even pin down why.

Shrewdly, Wells asks, “Do you, though?”

Barry says, “On second thought…”

* * *

 

He doesn’t actually know where Wells plans for him to sleep. The couch is Tess’s fortress of scary intellect, and Bunion has a pretty firm stake on the pile of coats in the corner, near the door. Barry eats his mac and cheese from a plastic plate with a picture of a rocket ship on it and wonders, idly, if he’ll have to put out.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tess tells him. “Harrison moves about as quickly as the Titanic. Now. As it sits on the bottom of the ocean.”

Barry chokes on a shell shaped noodle. “I meant with you.”

Wells and Tess exchange a meaningful glance that flies high over Barry’s head.

“You’re not my type, kid,” Tess says, cautiously. Bunion snuffles in his sleep, a pig-like grunting noise emanating from somewhere around the vicinity of Wells’s discarded pea coat. “Although I’m flattered by the offer.”

Um. Well. That joke fell seriously, perplexingly flat.

“Oh…kay?” It’s not often that Barry doesn’t follow along, and while he doesn’t begrudge his ignorance, he can’t identify what’s gone amiss here. He looks askance at Wells and Bunion in turn.

Wells shrugs. Bunion snuffles into his bed of coats. Apparently nobody plans on helping.

“The floor looks, uh. Ergonomic,” Barry tries.

Wells opens his mouth.

Wells closes his mouth.

“Harry’s got a California King, and he doesn’t mind going halvsies,” Tess supplies. She jabs a marker against the white board and adds, “He was going to work himself up to offering in about eight gajillion years.”

“ _Tess_ ,” Wells admonishes.

“ _Harrison_ ,” she deadpans in reply.

“There’s no way I could do that,” Barry says, trying to cut off Snarkfest Nineteen Ninety Whatever before the opening act. “I really should be getting-“

“Stay,” Wells says, and there’s a pleading note in it. “It’s no trouble. Really, it’s not. I’ll take the floor, and you can take the bed.”

“I- you. You just met me. I can’t take over your bed.”

“You can. You should. I don’t appreciate it enough. I’ve got…all that space, and…er.” Wells frowns down at his shoes, glaring at the tips of his sneakers like they’ve personally offended them. “The sheets smell like accelerant.” Here, he punctuates with a glare at Tess, who summarily ignores him. “But she’s right. It’s big enough to split. If you really need to get going, though-“

“I don’t!” Barry runs a hand through his hair, shifting on his feet. “I so, um, don’t.”

“This is painful,” Tess says to her white board, etching a picture of a stick figure Wells with steam coming out of his ears beneath all her lines of formulae. “This is the most painfully awkward thing I’ve seen in years.”

Barry can’t help but agree.

He breathes a sigh of relief when Wells rounds on her, threatening to kick Tess out, again, while she smiles sunnily up at him, completely unmoved.

Barry listens, chasing the last of his mac and cheese around the shape of the rocket ship, and avoids thinking about pertinent things.

Like what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

* * *

 

“I may have underestimated how weird this would be,” Wells tells him, face half-obscured by the comforter.

“Right back at you,” Barry admits, snuggling deeper under the covers. “I do have a house.” He rattles off Joe’s address dutifully, just to prove it. “And I don’t usually do…this.”

Wells snorts. “I’m not even sure what _this_ is.”

“Oh, good. I’m not alone, then.”

“Nope.”

He can vaguely see the outline of Wells shifting under the blankets.

They’re separated by a good foot of space; nothing at all untoward. But there’s an intimacy that’s inherent to being in someone else’s bed. It’s not an intimacy Barry ever expected to share with Harrison Wells.

His hands are sweating.

“So. Forensic science,” Well not so subtly begins, picking up a conversation they’d started somewhere on the walk to the fair. “What got you interested in that?”

It’s a lame distraction.

Barry will take it.

He screws up his face, trying to figure out a way he can say it without sounding pathetic. It’s always been an ongoing struggle, trying to tell people why he does what he does.

“My mom was murdered, when I was younger,” he admits. He can hear Wells’s sharp intake of breath, but he doesn’t want the pity that follows. He says, “No one ever caught who did it. I thought, if I was the one who parsed through evidence, I could stop that from happening to other kids. Like me.”

Silence greets the proclamation. Barry adds, “It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s noble,” Wells replies, emphatically. His eyes are luminous in the dark, reflecting the moon and the stars that dance outside his window.

That space ship is probably up there, Barry thinks. It’s riding the tails of meteors, and even he will never be able to do that.

“I don’t know about _noble_. What about you?” He asks, even though he’s read Wells’s autobiography at least eighteen different times. “Why science? Why physics?”

“I’m good at it,” Wells says, and it’s such a cocksure answer that Barry has to laugh out loud. He can’t imagine his Dr. Wells, so well-spoken and refined, bragging this way. “Besides. We only know the smallest fraction of what humanity is capable of. People say the pioneering days are over, but they’re not. We’ve just taken to exploring inward, instead of around us.”

“So what you’re saying is, alternately, you could have been an astronaut.”

Wells barks out a laugh. “I doubt I’d pass the physical. Do they have burgers in space?”

Twenty years from now, his own Dr. Wells practically lives at Big Belly Burger on late night science stints. The similarity puts Barry at ease. His breathing slows. “Dried ice cream isn’t the worst thing in the world. I had it, once. My foster dad took Iris ‘n me to the Smithsonian.” Barry yawns. “I always wanted to go to space.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Other things to do, I guess.” Barry does not talk about his dad, in prison. He doesn’t mention Iris, or how the thought of leaving her makes his heart squeeze all too painfully. And now, with all his friends; with Caitlin and Cisco and his Dr. Wells, space feels like a pipe dream that was never that realistic anyway.

Again, he remembers the ship, and with it, the niggling voice, telling him to go home.

As fast as his legs will carry him.

Instead, he lays there, listening to Wells describe his latest experiment, and all the ways Tess is trying to cockblock it, and how Bunion keeps sleeping in the spaghetti strainer – wait, _what_?

Barry is certain he’s getting his wires crossed in this conversation, but it doesn’t bother him as much as it should. In the space between his breath sounds, comingling with Wells’s…he falls asleep.

* * *

 

The little boy is extremely suspicious about Barry’s general size, shape, and existence.

This makes sense, because the little boy is Cisco, and even pint sized, he’s ridiculously smart.

Well, probably.

“Who’re you?” Cisco asks, for what seems like an inappropriate number of times.

Although, what would Barry know? He’s the one who kidnapped a six year old.

“This was a bad idea,” Barry tells Cisco.

Cisco rolls his eyes, gap-toothed and grinning. “You think so?”

Barry definitely thinks so. Maybe next he should go visit Starling City and check out whether little Oliver Queen is taking archery lessons yet. His ass could definitely use some kicking. “Why don’t I take you back to your mom and dad?”

“They can wait,” Cisco counters. The sound of shrieking children carries on the wind, because Barry didn’t actually kidnap Cisco too far. His brother’s birthday party is only half a block away, with its colorful streamers and its power ranger piñata swaying gently in the wind. “Who’re you?”

“I told you, my name’s Barry.”

“Is that short for Bartholomew?”

“Maybe,” Barry hedges. “Isn’t Bartholomew a big word for you?”

“I’m at an eighth grade reading level,” Cisco replies proudly. “I’m better than my brother.”

“That’s, uh. Good.” Barry squints down at Cisco. “You probably don’t know much about time travel, though, do you?”

Cisco’s face screws up in concentration. “What kind of time travel?”

“There are different kinds?”

“Sure.” His tiny shoulders move jerkily. “There’s the Doctor Who kind, and the Wrinkle in Time kind-“

“Are there any kinds that aren’t fictional?” Barry asks, and he feels very, very stupid having to kneel down to Cisco’s eye level and ask, “And, uh. Theoretically, how much could a person mess with the space-time continuum if they stayed in the past for too long?”

Cisco’s dark eyes bore into his. “Dude. I’m _six_.”

“You know,” Barry repeats. “This was a _bad_ idea.”

* * *

 

He takes Cisco back to the party, because one Allen in jail is enough, thank you very much. Besides, the kid was either holding out on him or he hasn’t cracked into any of the good stuff in terms of science tomes yet.

His knowledge of Einstein was sadly lacking.

Barry hadn’t even meant to dig himself deeper into the time travel hole. He was grabbing burgers on Wells’s orders while the resident non-married married scientists bickered. The path to Big Belly Burger from Wells’s apartment was…well, okay, it was about ten blocks in the other direction, but Barry had still hoped that Cisco would know something that could help him out.

He didn’t account for the part where Cisco was barely out of diapers and still kind of a smart mouth.

With a sigh, Barry pushes open the front door to Wells’s place.

“Food? Food!” Tess nearly detaches his arm in her efforts to free the Big Belly bag from Barry’s grip.

Bunion isn’t half as polite, springing from the arm of the couch onto Barry’s shirt. He claws his way up the cloth, puncturing Barry’s skin in a few places before he settles, unhappily, on Barry’s shoulder, and yowls.

“No burgers for you,” Wells tells the cat, and he does absolutely nothing to detach the salivating girl or the giant fluff-ball from Barry.

In lieu of assisting, he plucks the sack of burgers from Tess’s grip, whisking it off into the kitchen.

“Food!” She whines, trailing after him.

Barry pokes Bunion.

Bunion hisses in his ear.

Great.

“Allen, get in here,” Tess calls. “Or I’m eating your share.”

“No you’re not,” Wells tells her.

“Harry says I’m not.” Tess pops a fry in her mouth and mumbles over it, “But he can’t stop me.”

Barry laughs, pained, and saunters into the kitchen.

Bunion decides that what’s going on in there is much more interesting that swatting mildly at Barry’s hair, and jumps down to the counter.

“You’re a bad kitty,” Wells tells Bunion, and then completely undermines his statement by feeding the cat a fry.

“You’re a big old softie,” Tess says, scooping her fries up like she’s scared Bunion might eat them.

Barry nods his agreement. “I thought you said you wanted to get him put down.”

“I do,” Wells replies, narrowing his eyes at the cat. In a singsong voice, he says, “But everyone gets a last meal before euthanasia.”

“Do you see why I’m worried about him?” Tess inquires of Barry, flashes of fry in her mouth. “All alone, with this cat? Next time I come to visit, he’ll have five and there’ll be scorch marks on the ceiling.”

“I can take care of myself, mom,” Wells retorts.

“When I see evidence of that, I’ll lay off.”

“She has a point, Dr. Wells- uh. Um.” Barry cowers under Wells’s dagger-sharp glare. “Harrison.”

There’s no way that’s ever not going to sound weird coming from his mouth.

“You’re clearly delusional.” Wells gathers up the bag of burgers, and its contents, sans one burger, which he shoves into Tess’s hands. “Here. Barry needs sunshine so his brain starts working again. You’re staying here, where you can’t poison him against me.”

“Can I make a fort out of all of your old school text books?” She asks brightly.

“Go wild. Build an igloo. See if I care.” Wells pulls Barry by the crook of his elbow towards the door.

They’re walking so quickly that Barry has to tug at the waistline of his loaned sweatpants – oddly reminiscent of his S.T.A.R. Labs gear – so that he doesn’t give Tess a panoramic view of his ass. He protests, “My brain doesn’t need sunshine.”

Wells appears severely unconvinced.

* * *

 

The park is nice as far as parks go. They’ve got a myriad of them in Central City, all with standard playground equipment and grass that is relatively free of old beer bottles and pointy things from which tetanus can be contracted.

That latter point should be obvious, but hey, Barry’s been to Starling City, where the public parks are ripe with shivs.

Wells circles one particular spot, like a dog looking to nest, before he settles on the grassy knoll. Barry slinks down beside him. He doesn’t ask _why here_ ; the plateau overlooks the curve of a river, arcing beneath a rickety moon bridge. The water burbles happily, even though its contents are likely bracken with silt and salt, wafting in from the sea.

It’s pretty. That’s why here.

“Now can I eat my burger?” Barry asks, his hyped up metabolism practically screaming for meat.

Wells bites back a grin, the movement almost endearingly shy, from the twitch of his lips to the way he actually nips at his own lower lip. He admonishes, “Patience is not one of your virtues, Allen.”

“Never has been,” Barry agrees, launching himself over Wells’s lap for the bag. Happily, he wiggles as he roots around inside, emerging with two sloppily wrapped burgers and about nineteen packets of mayonnaise and ketchup.

Once he rights himself, Wells holds out a hand, waiting for Barry to share.

Except, uh, no.

“Mine,” Barry says, holding the burgers close to his chest. “There’s one in there for you. But, um, the other seven are also mine.”

“I’d wondered why this thing was so heavy.” Wells frowns at the bag before freeing a burger of his very own. “Where do you put it all?”

Barry’s already half way through a cheeseburger. His lips gape open, exposing partially chewed food and he says, “In my _mouf_ ,” which is probably English of some degree. Maybe. He swallows, adding, “And then in my stomach.”

“You’re a human trash compactor.”

“I like food!” Barry beams, taking a huge bite out of his burger.

Wells grins, more muted, and carefully begins unwrapping his.

The water laps at the base of the bridge. The sun warms Barry’s shoulders through Wells’s old Starling City Rockets t-shirt. It’s quiet, but in a good way; one of those moments when people connect, in the spaces where life falls away.

Those are the best ones, Barry thinks.

He knocks his foot against Wells’s and inquires, “Why couldn’t Tess come?”

“Tess is nosy.”

“You like that about her.”

“Yes,” Wells allows. “But I wanted to get to know you better.”

“Oh.” Barry chews, thoughtful. Birds chirp overhead, and an airplane tracks incrementally across the sky. “ _Oh_.”

Wells’s eyes narrow, slitted blue, the same color as the river. “Is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Barry splutters. “I, uh. I’d like to get to know you better too.”

Relaxing, Wells says, “Ask away.”

Barry grabs onto the first thing he can think of. “Do you want to open your own lab?”

“Yeah. ‘Course. In a few years, maybe.”

“What’s stopping you now?” Barry asks. “You’re smart enough, and the apartment clearly can’t take the fumes.”

“Tess,” Wells replies, honestly. “We promised each other than one day, we’d open a place together. I think that’s why she wants me to come to Maryland. She’d make me co-proprietor.”

“But you’re not ready yet,” Barry concludes.

“No. I’m not.”

Wells’s confession that he wants to make it on his own sits in the forefront of Barry’s mind. He gets it, but he doesn’t, because Tess is beautiful and smart, and okay, kind of a slob, but generally she’s nice to be around. Wells finding his footing with her can’t be a bad thing.

Hell, judging by their eventual marriage certificate, even Wells agrees.

Barry wonders what inspires that kind of pride, and why Wells won’t just accept the help he’s offered. In the future, he can’t imagine Dr. Wells saying ever _no_ , not to something he so desperately needs.

“No shame in that,” Barry says, finally, with a mixture of admiration and bewilderment. He watches a family of ducks surf the less-than turbulent ripples in the river and sighs. “I can’t remember the last time I had a chance to unwind like this.”

“Life’s hard for a superhero,” Wells replies. At Barry’s arched eyebrows, he says, “You never are going to tell me what that costume was for, will you?”

“Maybe one day,” Barry promises.

“I’m sure it’ll knock my socks off.” Wells lifts one foot, revealing a dinosaur pattern between his black jeans and his Converse.

Barry laughs. ‘I didn’t think you owned anything that isn’t black.”

“They’re black!” Wells protests. “Under the green. And red. And blue. And purple.”

“You’re kind of a nerd.”

“According to the forensic scientist.” Chuckling, Wells leans back on his elbows, his burger balanced on the taut stretch of his stomach under a plain black tee. “I’m happy I met you, Barry Allen.”

Sunlight heats Barry’s cheeks as they stretch with his smile. “I’m very happy I met you too, Dr. We- er. Harrison.”

Satisfied, Well flashes his teeth. The uptick of his smile makes Barry’s heart race at sonic speeds; more so when Wells reaches over to thumb ketchup from the side of Barry’s mouth.

The moment stretches long and thing between them, like it could be something more.

Barry has no idea what more is, but he wants it, wants all of it, more of this river and this park and Wells looking at him, just like that, and-

“I ran away.”

Just like that, the moment is broken. Wells and Barry glance up to a new shadow, that blocks out the sun.

It’s Cisco, hugging the power ranger piñata tight. He says again, “I ran away, and I’m never going back, and it’s your fault.”

Wells glances at Barry.

Barry glances at Wells.

Wells holds up his hands and says, “This one’s all you.”


	3. Chapter 3

“So, the stealing of children thing,” Tess asks idly, elbows propped against Wells’s couch, eyes bright and wild. “Is it a hobby, or something you’re just trying out?”

“Leave him alone now,” Wells says, patting her arm. His hair is wayward, sticking up in every direction, and Barry is struck by how…handsome…he looks like this; casual, confident, and heartbreakingly young. “I already made every joke you can think of on the walk home.”

Tess beams. “I’ve taught you well.”

“Your friends are weird,” Cisco tells Barry, and Barry mostly just rubs at his temples and wonders how he got himself into this mess.

“Do you feel like going home yet?”

“I told you, I’m never going home.” Cisco crosses his thin arms and says, “I ran away.”

“Running away isn’t really a thing that you should be doing. You’re six,” Barry points out. “You can’t run very fast.”

He should know, he thinks, and he aches to feel the wind on his face.

Cisco, of course, ignores his solid advice in favor of stroking Bunion. Who does not hiss, growl, or try to attach his claws to any part of Cisco’s anatomy.

Barry tells Wells – who he’s supposed to be calling Harrison, and how confusing is that? – with considerable agitation, “Your cat is a backstabbing Brutus.”

Wells, or Harrison, or Wells shrugs and says, “He grew up on the mean streets of Central City. It’s his prerogative to be a dick.”

“What’s your excuse?” Tess asks.

Wells yanks her bun, pencil and all, lightly back in punishment. The only thing it accomplishes is prompting Tess to smile adoringly up at him, like, _it’s cute when you’re mad_.

Barry watches them both, remembering that odd moment at the park, where he almost felt something flutter in the space between his ribcage and Wells’s, a dissonant interest that he’s never noticed before. It was his imagination, obviously. It had to be. Wells and Tess are predestined, a love story in action, with the most tragic of endings. He wishes he knew how to stop it, to warn the two away from Star City’s slippery roads one night years from now, but who knows what would happen if he did?

Better not to wonder.

Cisco jabs him with a finger. “Bunion’s hungry.”

Wells scoffs. “Bunion’s always hungry.”

“I think Bunion is code for Cisco,” Tess observes.

“Oh. Er.” Wells crosses his arms and glowers at Tess. “Feed him.”

“Excuse you? I don’t do children.” She flaps a hand towards Cisco, who is following the conversation with keen interest. “Barry, handle it.”

“Sure, yeah. I mean, obviously. I wouldn’t want you to move.”

“That’s the spirit,” Tess cheers.

“Weird,” Cisco repeats. Bunion purrs his agreement. “Your friends are weird.”

Barry admonishes, “That’s not a very nice way to ask for food.”

“Are you going to feed me?”

Barry looks to Wells. Wells has not dropped his defensive posture even one iota. He eyes Bunion and Cisco suspiciously and says, “Why should we do that? You interrupted _our_ lunch. Starve.”

“Hey, now.” Barry rebukes him, even though he has a point. He had a whole bag full of glorious burgers, and he didn’t even get to enjoy them. Barry’s not sulking about that, except for how he totally is. “Be nice.”

“Fine.” Wells exhales heavily. “Little Ramon, you were resourceful enough to run away. I trust you’re resourceful enough to operate a stove. Kitchen’s that way.”

“Barry said you have to be nice,” Cisco chides.

Sweetly, Wells replies, “Barry’s not my supervisor. I don’t have to listen to him.”

“No one listens to me,” Barry says. “I give up.”

He flops on the couch, which he has quietly dubbed as Tess’s Home. She gives him the mildest of glares, like he shouldn’t get _ideas_.

Barry scrunches up his face to convey that his lack of ideas is the very point of flopping.

“Did you two just have an entire conversation without talking?” Wells asks, torn from his rousing round of insult the six year old, which Cisco was totally winning. “No. No, no. No, no, no. That’s not allowed. You’re conspiring against me.”

“Paranoid, much?” Cisco asks. He’s at least three feet shorter than Wells, but they meet each other’s gaze with evenly matched disdain.

“Shut it, Tiny Tim,” Wells rejoins, with the air of someone who clearly does not know what to do with children.

“Make me, old man,” Cisco replies, following up with an ungenerous, “Barry doesn’t even like you. He’s my friend.”

“’m everyone’s friend,” Barry tells the couch cushion. “I have enough friendship to go around for miles.”

Wells sits on his back. “Possession is nine tenths of the law, kid.” He pats Barry’s spine, which isn’t even straining under the weight of his skinny ass, but is kind of tingling where Wells touches him. “He’s mine now.”

“Harry,” Tess sighs, equal parts exasperation and affection. She glances as Cisco. “What do you say? Tackle him?”

“Tackle him,” Cisco confirms.

Abruptly, Barry is the human equivalent of a bouncy house. Cisco’s knee is somewhere around Barry’s shoulder, his tiny tennis shoes digging into the arm of the couch as he tries to shove at Wells from one side. Tess, meanwhile, has an elbow in the back of Barry’s thigh while she uses her kraken-like grasp to drag Wells down.

And Wells sits there, on the small of Barry’s back, smug as can be.

“My face,” Barry complains to Cisco, who is totally starting to kick. “Watch my face.”

Bunion, the only one who hears his plea, promptly sits on the back of Barry’s head. Claws out and all.

Barry muffles a groan into the pillow and sternly does not wonder how this happened to him.

* * *

 

“You don’t bruise easily,” Well tells him, looking a lot more like a Harrison now that they’re standing off on their own in the alcove of his kitchen. “So that’s good.”

“Yeah, that’s always a good thing in the event of _mauling_.”

Barry’s lips twist, and he tries his hardest to glare, but it’s difficult. He likes this easy rapport he’s got going with this Dr. Wells. He likes the weight of the other man’s incredibly blue eyes on him.

He even likes the idea that all of this is going somewhere, even if it’s ludicrous, and he has no idea where _somewhere_ is.

Cisco and Bunion are curled up contentedly in a pool of late afternoon sunlight to the left of Tess’s whiteboard. Beside them, Tess’s erasable marker squeaks as she works her way through an equation that seems to be for improving upon Well’s coffeemaker.

Wells asks, “What are we going to do about Short Stack over there?”

“Tess isn’t that short.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes. Absolutely. Right. What we’re going to do is…Do you mean…?” Barry draws a finger across his throat, imitating a knife.

“What?” Well asks, startled. “No. What? Why?”

Barry laughs, full-throated and loud. “I’m messing with you. We can take him home, but I’m not sure if there’s a way to avoid the-“ here he does a complicated gesture with his hands meant to indicate _kicky feet_ , “Or the tantrum of epic proportions that will follow.”

Wells – no, Harrison. No, Wells. Wells evaluates Cisco from afar, taking in the way the kid patiently strokes Bunion while the two of them bask in sunlight. “He doesn’t look like the kind of kid who throws tantrums.”

“All kids throw tantrums,” Barry replies. “I imagine Cisco’s will involve fewer tears and more threats against our, uh, everything.”

“You know him pretty well, huh?”

“I just met him today,” Barry says, honestly. But grown up Cisco would probably invent some kind of mega-gun and wield it against anyone who tried to force him to go anywhere he didn’t want to, so. “It was nice of you. To let him come back here.”

“Oh, well. The more the merrier, and all that.” Wells waves his fingers around vaguely, clearly meaning that he never intended to have any of them at his place, from Cisco to Tess to Bunion and Barry. That hangs between them for a moment, and then Wells uses the awkward silence to segue, “So. Before.”

“You wanted to get to know me better,” Barry recalls. From the corner of Wells’s apartment, opposite Cisco, Bunion, and Tess, the power ranger piñata judges him. Judgily. _Soldier up_ , it whispers through its power ranger mask. “I couldn’t tell if that was a come on or not.”

Wells – and it’s getting more and more bizarre, calling him that, even in Barry’s own head – reddens. “That bad?”

“Not the worst I’ve ever had.” Barry licks his lips and squares his shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell me it was a date?”

The corners of Wells’s mouth tick downward. “I don’t take people on dates.”

“Too bourgeois?” Barry guesses, glancing pointedly around the shabby apartment.

“Funny. Very funny.” Harrison – because yeah, at this point, it’s got to be – reaches over and ruffles his hair, the move so affectionate and familiar that Barry’s heart aches.

He wants more. He wants to feel this man’s hands on him.

There is history between them that Harrison doesn’t even know about, driving that feeling, but there’s also this spark of newness that Barry wants to catch between his palms and hold close.

Barry doesn’t know what to do, not with any of it. Not even the knot in his gut screaming that he needs to go home, now.

Home, where everything about Harrison Wells is bourgeois, and where the man would never, ever, ever look at Barry the way he is now. Isn’t that the best reason to stay?

Barry inquires, “Does that mean I don’t get another chance?”

“At being funny?” Harrison snorts. “No. That was your last opportunity.”

“At a date.”

Harrison’s eyes go wide, and man, one day Barry’s going to get over the depth of them, the blueness that reminds him of what he saw when he ran here, of the speed force in waves. “Uh. That is. You. Um.”

“I think your landlord’s right. The chemicals are getting to your brain.” Barry squeezes Harrison’s shoulder, his expression bright. “I’m kidding. We don’t have to go anywhere-”

“I know a place,” Harrison objects, already recovering.

“Seriously, dude. I was just-“

Firmly, Harrison says, “I know a place.”

“Oh.” Barry lets that sink in, and he can’t, not really. How can he even begin to let that sink in? “So. Is it a date?”

“Too bourgeois,” Harrison retorts, but he’s smiling, showing off the start of those lines that crinkle around his cheeks in the future. And Barry knows then:

He’s not in love with Harrison; he can’t be, with a man he just met. But he is something, some combination of lust and liking, tangled in with the more complicated feelings of admiration, adoration, and respect he has for the man that Dr. Wells will become. If it’s not love, exactly, it has the potential to be.

Easily.

Barry’s chest tightens; equal parts excitement and trepidation.

He hopes that one day, his own Dr. Wells will forgive him for rewriting their entire history.

* * *

 

“You have to go inside,” Barry says reasonably. “You live here.”

“Not anymore,” Cisco replies, and the little jerk is mocking him, he has to be, because there is no way a six year old can keep his cool better than a full grown man. “I live with you ‘n Tess ‘n Harry.”

Barry squeezes the power ranger piñata, ignoring the ominous creak of cardboard in his arms. “Cisco, please.”

“You want to get rid of me.”

“Yes. Yes, I do,” Barry agrees, because he’s got places to be and Cisco is seriously, seriously cockblocking him right now. “It’s not you, it’s me, kid.”

“I know it’s you.” Cisco pouts. “I’m amazing.”

“Cool. Amazingly go inside.” Barry makes shooing motions towards Cisco’s house, and yeah, he’s being an douchenozzle, but he so doesn’t care.

Neither does Cisco, because he doesn’t budge.

Across the street, Harrison and Tess spectate with matching entertained grins. Despairingly, Barry says, “Come on, _please_? Pretty please? What do I have to give you to make you go home?”

“I want you to tell Dante he has a fat head,” Cisco decides, pushing up his chin all business-like. “And I want you to tell my mom that I deserve extra cake.”

“Those are tough terms, Cisco.” Barry glances back at Harrison, who has his hands shoved in his tight black jeans. He’s outlined in sunset colors, with his drop dead gorgeous, amazingly brilliant, almost-wife beside him, and fuck if he doesn’t look better than sex. Barry wants and he wants and he wants, and just this once, maybe he can _have_. “I’ll take ‘em.”

* * *

 

It takes some maneuvering, getting into the Valdez’s house.

They’re grateful at first, because apparently little Francisco has a penchant for _wandering off_ – and Barry cannot even say how not surprised he is to hear that, because Cisco is headstrong and curious, no matter the decade – and they demonstrate their gratefulness with food, which is the one thing Barry has no idea how to turn down.

Do people even want to turn down food? Ever?

Tess doesn’t, because obviously her and Harrison follow along on this adventure, and isn’t that a weird thing? Barry Allen, having adventures as Barry Allen. His suit’s back at Harrison’s apartment, not quite gathering dust – it’s only been a day – but he’d forgotten how exciting real life can be, without metahumans or laboratories or crime. In this moment, there’s nothing other than Barry, and Tess, and the eat off they’re having while Harrison oversees them with barely concealed disgust.

Cisco’s mom is delighted to have the company, and Cisco, for his part, keeps insisting Barry tells his parents about the cake.

Barry does no such thing, because this is his first impression on the Valdez family, and even though he probably won’t see them again for roughly twenty years, he’d like it to be a good one. He keeps Dante’s piñata propped on one knee, avoiding Cisco’s pleas for a diabetic coma while Mrs. Valdez asks him and Tess about their jobs, and their educations, and in between plies them both with about three more plates of food.

Tess matches Barry bite for bite, because she is clearly a kindred spirit.

Meanwhile Harrison leans against the wall with Mr. Valdez, observing it all like some kind of apathetic overlords. The imagery is broken a bit by Cisco sitting on Harrison’s feet and demanding cake, but still. It’s sweet to see them man-bonding, or whatever.

When they leave, Barry does manage to keep part of his promise.

He ruffles Dante’s hair, leaning down and murmuring, “By the way. You’ve got a fat head,” and he can’t even fault the kid for stomping on his foot.

* * *

 

The place that Harrison knows is also a place that Barry knows, in that it is the Central City planetarium.

“Why do you have the keys to this place?” Barry is half intrigued and half appalled. “Wait. Do I want to know? Are we trespassing?”

“Would you like it if we were?”

“No,” Barry replies flatly.

“Relax, Allen.” Harrison smirks, and Barry can’t even recall if Dr. Wells has ever looked that light or reckless or carefree. “No one’s coming to arrest you.”

“They better not. My record’s pristine.” Barry doesn’t even know if an arrest in 1995 would count against him, and it’s not like he’d ever allow himself to stay in cuffs, but Harrison doesn’t need to be informed about any part of that other than Barry’s stern disapproval of lawbreakers.

He tries very hard to school his features into something resembling stern.

It clearly doesn’t work, if Harrison’s snicker is anything to go by. “I promise; I am every bit the law-abiding citizen.”

“I dunno. You’ve got a shifty look about you.”

Harrison laughs, and it’s a low, throaty rumble. “You should talk, superhero.”

He produces a picnic blanket and a six pack of beer from his backpack, because clearly this man knows all there is to know about sweeping a guy off his feet.

Barry pops the top off of his beer and decides this might be the best date he’s ever had.

He settles down on the floor of the planetarium, the checked pattern of the blanket soft under his fingers, while Harrison begins fiddling with the projector. “Do you need help?”

“I have a PhD!”

Barry takes a long gulp of beer, reveling in the cold and the fizz, even if it doesn’t really do anything else for him. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Funny how that’s not what I asked.”

Tufts of Harrison’s hair appear from the top of the machinery, his eyes narrowed. “I’m trying to romance you here. Shut up and let me.”

“Yes, sir!” Barry shows his teeth in a half-grin, leaning back on his elbows. He finishes his first beer, and then starts in on his second, for kicks.

Overhead, the darkened ceiling blossoms into an explosion of stars, every pinprick in the ceiling fake, but brilliant. It’s the universe, laid bare for the two of them.

“See?” Harrison calls. “I’m handy.”

Barry certainly hopes so, but he has no idea if that’s where the date is going.

His heart kicks up a fuss, nerves and anticipation. Harrison lopes down to join him, sprawling across the blanket before turning onto his back. He pillows his head on his arms and smirks. “How am I doing so far?”

Barry hands him a beer. “Middling.”

“You’re hard to please.”

“Said no one ever.” Barry chuckles. “This is nice. It’s all really…nice.”

Harrison sees straight through him. “And strange. What you’re not saying is that it’s strange.”

“I’m not-“ Reconsidering, Barry peers down at him. “Yeah, okay. It’s a little strange.”

Harrison tips back his beer, lips molded to the brown glass of the rim. He commands, “Tell me why.”

“You only just met me, and you’re clearly violating some kind of moral code of yours, what with the-“ He gesticulates vaguely at the planetarium and the beer and the picnic blanket. “And it’s impressive, honestly. Where I come from…”

Barry tries to figure out how to say that where he comes from, getting to know new people is a complicated chess game of Facebook, texting, and occasional run-ins. That no one would ever take a complete stranger into their house the way that Harrison has, or go out of their way to charm that stranger into actually liking them.

“Hey,” Harrison says mildly, setting his drink aside. His fingers touch Barry’s chin, forcing Barry to capture his gaze, and for a moment, Barry thinks he’s going to say something life altering and wonderful. What actually comes out of his gruff mouth is, “You’re the one who asked to see my apartment.”

“I guess we’re both strange,” Barry admits, and he regrets that he can’t explain how going home with Harrison felt like the safest, most natural thing to do.

“I’m glad we are,” Harrison says, his face luminescent under false starlight. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here,” and oh, there it is.

The life altering, wonderful thing.

He clutches his beer bottle, slick in his palms, too tightly. Barry’s not tipsy – can’t be – but he still feels a little off-kilter. Harrison is watching him like he’s a particularly interesting equation writ large on Tess’s white board. His eyes traces Barry’s face the way he would follow math in sloped hand.

Barry wants to kiss him.

The thought appears with perfect clarity, unbidden, but no less true for its abruptness. This is Harrison Wells, his mentor, his hero, and none of that matters because this is also Harrison Wells, the odd man who picked him up off the street, who curses and bickers and is vulnerable in ways that Barry never thought the esteemed scientist he put high up on a pedestal could be. So yes, he wants to kiss him.

Very much.

He leans in, despite the swooping feeling in his stomach that means everything is about to change, and it’s as much of an invitation as he knows how to make.

The projector whirs in the background, stars arcing overhead, but all Barry can see is the luminescence of Harrison’s ocean eyes in the dark.

Always quick to pick up a hint, Harrison’s lips melt against his, the glow of heat sinking through Barry’s skin, pooled in his marrow. And Barry knows in this moment that this is the worst possible idea he has ever had.

He is wrecked, wretched, convinced that he can’t ever leave this place, with Harrison’s hands hot against his skin and the brilliant blaze of his mouth. He’s infatuated with it, addicted; he straddles the other man’s lap and wants to promise that he’ll never, ever leave.

Instead, he shifts, nipping at Harrison’s skin, and Harrison smiles against him, changing the kiss so that it’s deeper, so that he is tasting Barry with every slow, wet slide of his lips. His right hand tracks warmth along the shape of Barry’s abdomen, alight at the feel of solid muscle.

“Aren’t you a gift?” He asks, wondrously, and Barry knows Harrison belongs with Tess. He _marries_ Tess. They’re perfect together, and Barry can’t even be jealous of it, because he also knows that tragedy waits at the end of the line.

But right now, Barry is convinced that Harrison belongs with him. That there’s nowhere else he should ever possibly be, and how dangerous is that?

“Unwrap me,” he replies, exhaling soft against Harrison’s mouth. It should be corny.

Harrison shivers and tugs at the waistband of Barry’s sweats. Everywhere he touches is electric, and Barry’s dick twitches, very interested in the proceedings.

Absolutely delighted that he can, Barry manhandles Harrison so he’s flat on the ground, stretched long and lithe beneath him, all these hard lines to explore, and he does, he does, he touches Harrison everywhere – from the jut of his hipbone up the ivory keys of his ribs, over the too-bony curve of his shoulders and northward.

Harrison snorts an insult that sounds like _asshat_ , but Barry takes Harrison’s face between his palms and, swallows it down, licking into Harrison’s mouth, searching out the best ways to make the other man moan. It works too well; Harrison surges against him, trying to pull Barry closer, to eliminate the minuscule distance left between their bodies.

Barry grips Harrison’s hips, rolling against him, friction electric between their cocks. And that, that’s the greatest thing in the world, alternating between a slow, tortuous drag and frantic rubbing that nearly surmounts _too much_.

When he pulls away, panting, Barry says, “I may be an asshat, but you can’t deny that I’m clever.”

Harrison pins him with a fond, soft grin. He touches his mouth to Barry’s again, the taste of beer on his lips and the kiss buzzing through Barry’s veins. “That you are.”

His fingertips trace down the notches in Barry’s spine, their warmth palpable even through the loaned shirt. They’re trying to slow it down, to stop the hum of need in their veins. Harrison knocks his forehead against Barry’s and murmurs, “Tell me, Barry Allen. What do you want to be remembered for?”

“I don’t know,” Barry says honestly. He follows the bob of Harrison’s throat with his lips, sucking kisses against skin, punctuating it with the scrape of his teeth. “I just want you to remember me.”

Harrison’s head lolls back, giving Barry better access. “That’s a strange thing to say.” He words rumble under Barry’s tongue. “Unless – you’re leaving.”

“I’m not,” Barry rushes to reassure him, the fine tremor that overtakes Harrison’s body under his a sure sign that this is going lopsided and nowhere near where he wants.

Harrison accuses, “Yet.”

Barry shrugs, for lack of anything to say. He rolls off of Harrison reluctantly, flopping onto his back.

In the dim glimmer of projected stars, he finds his bottle with one hand, pushing his other into Harrison’s, until their fingers are twined. He sips at the beer and peers up at the projected stars tracking overhead, Harrison’s breath sounds short and strained.

Barry can’t stay, but he has no way to explain the how or the why of it.

If he stays, Tess might live. Hell, with the way that Harrison was looking at him just a minute ago, they might not even get married. And there’s some appeal in that, in staying here in the nineties and helping found S.T.A.R. Labs.

But if Barry stays, there are so many other things he can’t do, like see Iris grow into the amazing, powerful woman she’s becoming, or helping Joe with the meta outbreaks all over the city.

He doesn’t get to mess up an entire timeline just because one man takes his breath away.

Especially not when that same man is waiting, someday in the future, for Barry to return. He might not feel the same way – he’s not supposed to feel any way, but Barry has fucked that up so badly – but he’s been so good and so kind.

Barry owes it to him, to science, and to himself to be what Central City needs.

To be the Flash.

There’s no way to convey that, no easy answer or flippant excuse. Barry discards his bottle, and in a small, plaintive voice, he asks, “Do we have to talk about that now?”

Harrison turns, resting on one side so that he can watch the play of constellations across Barry’s face. Where their hands are laced, he rubs patterns against Barry’s knuckles. Indecision is stark in his eyes, but quietly, Harrison says, “No.”

He pulls Barry back against him, and then they don’t talk about anything, anymore. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voice hitching, Harrison says, “You dreamed about me, then?”
> 
> “I will now,” Barry allows, and he means it. Even if he gets back to the future and his Dr. Wells disowns him, this is something he can’t regret.

Later, when Barry remembers the night, it’ll be in the salt-taste of Harrison’s skin in the back of his throat, the way he squirms when Barry divests him of his shirt and tries to learn the pattern of his veins beneath skin, following each blue branch with his tongue.

Overhead, the stars blur and crowd close, watching, a gathering inflorescence of shining, brilliant light unmatched by the vivid delight that makes Harrison practically glow. His lips curve, and oh, Barry will forever recall the way they shed their pants, nervous – almost shy – and then eager to show off, once Harrison grips his naked hips.

He pulls Barry up and over him until their cocks are pressed close and tight, slick with pre-come. Barry takes a long, shuddering breath, his fingers bruising Harrison’s biceps, his heart a constant drum behind his ribs. Softly, he says Harrison’s name, and Harrison claims his mouth in return, fever-hot and coaxing.

There’s a few rough, languorous slides between them, testing, inquisitive; neither wanting to scare the other away. But soon there is desperation in the way they rut against each other, Harrison burying his face against Barry’s throat, and Barry trying to take everything in; the checkered pattern of the picnic blanket, the cool dark of the planetarium while dizzying constellations slid overhead, the pale shell of Harrison’s ear, and the way something quicksilver and bright lances through him, following Harrison’s fingertips.

He pulls at Barry’s dick and his own, stroking and fraught, their pulses mirrored. Every rough movement of his hand spreads magma at the base of Barry’s spine, building and building up every vertebra. He’s gasping with it, overwhelmed, overloading, and Harrison murmurs low, sweet things, nothing words that are the antithesis of the gruff postdoc he is beneath the light of the sun.

His knuckles skitter tiny arcs of warmth through Barry’s veins, and the combined ache of them in Harrison’s hand throbs through him, buzzes around in Barry’s brain, his whole body going tight.

He tells Harrison, “I’m not gonna last,” and the noise Harrison makes is encouraging. He’s speeding up too, cock pink-slick against Barry’s in the cage of his palm. He kisses the line of Barry’s collarbone, sucks and bites down. Barry cries out his name, and he moves up.

He sucks at Barry’s throat, gently cajoling; it’s all Barry can do to remember not to speed his hips too fast, not to give away the lightning in his eyes. He has to blink back against the twisted, delighted grin on Harrison’s face, the way he drinks in Barry’s expressions, memorizing the sight, the feel, the sound, and Barry is coming, coming, and Harrison is coming too, and Barry will not ever forget this at all.

* * *

 

They walk from the observatory back to Harrison’s apartment, hands tentatively held – grip loose, barely acknowledged. Barry breathes deep, the air of Central City a familiar summer blend of hyacinth, freshly cut grass, humidity, and the breeze off the bay.

Harrison says, “You should say goodbye to Tess.”

“Should I?” Barry asks carefully.

“Or, counterproposal: don’t leave.” Harrison squeezes Barry’s fingertips, just this side of painful. He says, “Why do I get the sense you really are a superhero?”

“What do you mean?”

Harrison inclines his head, cheekbones illuminated by starlight. “You show up out of nowhere, in your S&M dungeon suit, put the world back on its axis, and then disappear just as quickly.”

Barry’s mouth gapes open. “S&M…dungeon…suit?”

“It’s very tight,” Harrison explains, with a broad grin that makes Barry think he’d looked enough to notice.

He shifts, pleased and a little turned on, the ghosts of Harrison’s hands still imprinted on his cock. “I wish I could stay.”

“Worlds to save,” Harrison concedes.

“You have no idea.” Barry laughs softly. “I’m glad I met you.”

Cheekily, Harrison dimples and retorts, “The pleasure was definitely all mine.”

“I’m serious! You’re a cranky, sour bastard, and your cat probably gave me mange, and I think Tess might have fleas – you really need to get her away from that whiteboard and into a shower – but. But.” Barry stands on his tiptoes to kiss Harrison’s forehead, the sweetest, most chaste gesture he can imagine. Against the winkles only just forming beneath his lips, he says, “You’re nothing like I’ve dreamed.”

Voice hitching, Harrison says, “You dreamed about me, then?”

“I will now,” Barry allows, and he means it. Even if he gets back to the future and his Dr. Wells disowns him, this is something he can’t regret.

Harrison captures Barry’s mouth against his own, mumbling, “Sweet talker.”

Barry grips Harrison closer and agrees, “You bet,” because if you talk dumb, no one minds when you aren’t smart. But he is smart, and Harrison’s off the charts brainy, and between the two of them they both understand what isn’t being said.

_I like you._

_I don’t want you to go._

_Stay._

_Stay_.

**_Stay_**.

* * *

 

“What do you mean you’re leaving?” Tess yowls, her hair tumbling down from its pencil-secured bun as she bristles. “You just got here!”

“Tess,” Harrison sighs. He plucks what appears to be a day old Cheezit from her blonde waves. “He’s got things to do, places to be, you to get away from.”

“Mean!” To Barry, Tess urges, “Don’t go. You make his grumpy face five times less grumpy. Plus, Bunion likes you.”

Barry frowns at where the cat is clinging to the leather of his suit. “How can you tell?”

“Intuition.” Tess taps the side of her head knowingly, and without warning, flings herself at Barry for a bone-crushing hug. “Do you really have to leave?”

“I really, really have to.”

“Can you take Harry with you?” Tess is mumbling the words into the side of Barry’s neck, and he can feel the rumble of laughter through her frame. “If you leave, and then I leave, I’m scared he might burn down the house.”

“Hide the flammable chemicals, just to be sure,” Barry jokes.

Then he draws away, wanting to look at her. Every account he’s read said that Harrison Wells’s poor, dead wife was a force to be reckoned with, elegant and fierce, and Barry imagines Tess growing into that sophistication, in the next few years, the mess nest of her hair smoothing out, her clothes stain-free and neat. But he knows, beneath it, will be this girl, loyal, determined, and too smart for her own good, right up until she’s extinguished.

He should tell her to stay away from that car, from Star City. To stay in Maryland and never, ever come back. But more seriously, all that Barry instructs Tess is, “Take him with you.”

She pulls back, surprise writ large in her pretty blue eyes. “He won’t come. You know that.”

“Try again,” Barry insists. “Try until he caves.” He squeezes her shoulders, bird-bones beneath his hands. “Don’t let him be lonely.”

A slow smile spreads across Tess’s lips. She says, “I’ll do my best.”

“Then you can’t fail,” Barry agrees.

He hugs her once more, quick, and then he lets go, not wanting to think about the future he’s going back to, and how it’s empty of her keen intelligence and her wild, reckless joy.

Tess slumps back onto the couch and says, “Now you two kiss, so I can watch.”

Harrison’s cheeks burn red. “You’re a savage. Get out of my house.”

“I like it here.” Tess wiggles her ass, planting herself deeper between the cushions. “The familiarity of the fungi calms me.”

“My apartment doesn’t have any fungus.” Harrison scowls at his walls, and his couch, and his cat, still latched onto Barry’s leg. “Last time I checked. Have you been working with bio-agents again?”

Tess’s lips curve serenely, and she shoos Barry towards the door, expecting Harrison will follow.

He does.

This is the part that Barry is dreading, the one that he’s in no way equipped to handle. An hour ago he was naked with this man, entwined so inextricably around his body that leaving wasn’t even conceivable. And now he’s got no other choice.

He could stay until morning, but all that’s going to do is hurt them both.

Barry detaches Bunion from his suit, carefully stroking the cat once across its foul little head. He narrowly misses fangs to the palm, and straightens to step out on the porch. There, he turns and takes Harrison in, from his tight black jeans to the dark, loose tee that makes his shoulders look too thin, his skin too sallow; but all of it, the shape and frame of the man he’ll become.

“Don’t get all weepy on me, Allen,” Harrison advises, and Barry can hear the affection in his words.

Barry blinks back what definitely were not tears and tries to figure out how to say that he’s scared. Not that he’ll never see Harrison again, because that’s ridiculous. But that he’s going to return to a future where he will never be forgiven. Where the man who has guided him, shaped him, and in his own, quiet way, adored him, won’t even be able to look Barry in the eye anymore.

The only thing Barry can say is, “Don’t hate me, okay?”

Harrison frowns. “Sentimentality is for lesser minds than mine.”

“Sure. Right. Still.” Barry covers Harrison’s hands with his own. “Don’t hate me. And-“ He recalls what Harrison told him, that first night when they lay juxtaposed in bed. “Be a pioneer, Dr. Wells. Get out there and conquer. I’ll keep my eye out for you.”

Harrison smiles, a strange, twisted thing. He hasn’t missed the formality in those words.

Or the goodbye.

“You are a singular oddity, Barry Allen. Bon voyage.”

He salutes Barry, quickly, and then he shuts the door in his face.

The last impression Barry gets of the apartment is Bunion, clawing up Harrison’s leg, a whiff of chemicals spiraling through the air while Tess’s high, bright laughter rings out, the tail end of a lewd joke on her lips.

It’s not the worst goodbye.

Hell. It’s not even goodbye. Barry squints back his sadness and imagines a different Dr. Wells’s voice instructing, “ _Run, Barry… **Run**_.”

So he does.

* * *

 

The future looks a lot like the past, with sleeker cars.

Barry leans on his knees and thinks, _time travel, huh_. Still a thing.

Still a weird, weird thing.

He wonders if he should go to S.T.A.R. Labs for his obligatory reprimand now or later, but Cisco’s voice doesn’t crackle over the comm system of the suit and Barry begins to feel silly listening for nothing other than the hum of the powerlines and buzz of cicadas.

He zips back inside, where the phone is hanging, exactly as he left it. Oliver’s hung up, but he’s an impatient fuck, so it’s not the most accurate measure of how long Barry’s been in absentia.

Joe’s not back yet either, late nights at the precinct more common now than ever before.

He always returns from CCPD smelling of stale coffee, exhaustion apparent in every line of his body, accompanied by the fierce radiance of the hunt.

Joe loves his work. He’s proud of it, and Barry’s proud of him. But.

He remembers telling Wells Joe’s address. He wonders if he ever went looking for Barry.

He wonders if Harrison was disappointed that circa 1995, Joe West probably only had the vaguest idea of who Barry Allen was.

Barry can’t think of that. He slumps down on his bed and, on a whim, grabs Harrison Wells’s biography from its prized space on his bookshelf. He flips to the first page after the publishing credits.

The dedication to his _first and only love, Tess_ , hasn’t changed. Which, okay.

Barry knew the man for less than a week.

That doesn’t mean there isn’t a sting, jealousy and vicious envy, and gladness that they finally found each other, all intertwined.

Barry slams the book shut. He wants to call Cisco, or Caitlin, or Iris. Hell, he’d settle for Oliver, again. But his instinct is also to keep this close, to keep Tess and Bunion and the planetarium wrapped up tight, a secret that lives beneath his lungs.

He falls back against his pillow, closing his eyes.

His dreams are laced with the fleeting, mercurial flash of Harrison’s dimpled grin and the storm-tossed ocean of his gaze.

* * *

 

“Man, I had the weirdest dream about you and a piñata,” Cisco declares when Barry wanders out of the noon-sun into the cold, blue fluorescence of the lab.

Nervously, Barry laughs.

Dr. Wells is wheeled in front of a clear board, orderly equations written in neon ink marching across its surface. He cranes his head back, frowning at them both. “Is this relevant?”

His tame growl sets Barry’s blood racing.

Cisco shrugs. “Piñatas are always relevant.” He pauses, and then, “Hey. Have you ever thought about getting a pet? Maybe something that purrs?”

Dr. Wells blinks at him. “I’m allergic to cats.”

“Huh.” For a moment, Cisco seems like he wants to argue, and Barry has to swallow back guilt.

But the day Cisco spent with them back in 1990-whenever was briefer than brief. There’s no chance of him remembering it with any clarity.

No reason for Barry to want to get down on his knees and beg forgiveness.

“New allergy?” Barry asks, because that stuff happens; you get older and your body breaks down in all sorts of weird ways.

Not that Dr. Wells is ancient, or anything. He’s still…Barry watches him, thinking that he’s every bit as attractive now as he was back then, under the stars that blinked and twinkled and swayed.

Dr. Wells shrugs, noncommittal as fuck. His laser-focus is still on the board, tired-eyed behind thick framed glass. He’s clearly dog-tired. Downtrodden. And sad.

Not for the first time, Barry wonders at how difficult all of this must be for the man – the same guy who lay in the darkness of an apartment not so far from the labs, now, confessing that he wanted to be a pioneer. His explorations into the unknown started this constant war, the thing waged between metahumans and the city, this fight that’s made Barry wonder, at times, if power always irrevocably corrupts.

Harrison is responsible for it, for the death and the pain, even if he never could have predicted what was coming.

(Barry could have told him what was coming, but then Barry would never have existed. He never would have had a chance at any of this. How selfish he is…but heroes are human too.)

It wears on him, Barry knows.

Without thinking, he rests his palm against Dr. Wells’s shoulder. “What are you working on?”

Dr. Wells cuts his gaze towards Barry’s fingers, curled against his clavicle. “Um.”

Barry snatches his hand back the way a normal person might with a hot stove, or a really slimy earthworm. He can feel heat build under his lungs, behind his ears; embarrassment inflaming his spine.

But Dr. Wells, in typical Dr. Wells-fashion, brushes the misstep under the rug. He pushes his glasses further up his nose and says, “Cisco is demoing an application that gathers social media and news sightings for metas with our lab’s hack into CCPD’s transmissions.”

“It’s just an idea,” Cisco says proudly. He straightens his shoulders, trying to shrug off any trace of uncertainty. “But I thought I’d run it by the resident genius. See if this thing could sprout wings.”

“It’s clever,” Dr. Wells replies, and Cisco positively beams. “We need innovation like this if we’re going to stay ahead of the curve.”

Despite himself, Barry’s enthusiasm rises. “That’s great, Cisco.”

Cisco shrugs, cheeks reddening. “Ain’t no thing.”

Cisco warms to the praise, though, rattling off the coding he had to do to get the thing running, until finally Barry buries his head in his hands and hopes that Cisco will take a hint and stop.

Cisco does one better. “I’m taking off early today. Caitlin and I are going bowling.”

“Caitlin bowls?” Dr. Wells asks.

Barry is similarly perplexed. Caitlin isn’t really the bowling kind.

“She does now,” Cisco replies. His grin is wide and impish. Barry wonders if someone should warn Caitlin.

But he’s got bigger fish to fry. He manages to wait until Cisco’s half out the door before he approaches Dr. Wells. “Hey, can I talk to you?”

Never one to mince words, Wells frowns up at him.

Barry falters, the expectant tilt of Dr. Wells’ eyebrows throwing him. He’s seen this man naked, he realizes, seen him earnest and wanting, bossy and eager.

It’s only been a few days, but everything has changed.

Barry swallows back fear, because that’s not a thing heroes are allowed. “Uh. We should. Uh. Dinner?”

“Dinner?” Dr. Wells echoes.

“Yeah! Er. We should have dinner. And talk.”

“We’re talking right now, Mr. Allen,” Dr. Wells says, plainly confused.

Barry is hurt, missing the way his name rolls off Harrison’s tongue, but it’s been years for him, he remembers. He can’t hold it against him. Barry straightens his shoulders. “We should talk in-depth. You know.”

Actually, Dr. Wells still appears to know nothing, but he concedes, “I could eat.”

* * *

 

There’s a sharpness to Harrison’s smile that Barry never noticed before; it stands in stark contrast to the soft curve of his mouth as he edged his way along Barry’s jawline, twenty years ago and yesterday.

But twenty years – that’s a long time. Dr. Wells has fallen in love, built an empire, and lost so much. Some random encounter ages past probably isn’t even a blip on his radar, but Barry feels obligated to apologize anyway.

He blurts, “I’m really sorry,” painfully sincere, aching beneath his ribs. Because here’s the thing he’s only starting to get:

This man is his idol, his childhood hero and savior.

He’s always felt strongly for him. It just took Harry’s first move to make him see it.

“Sorry for what?” Dr. Wells asks, gaze rising from his burger.

They’re in the park, the same place they went over a decade ago, but Harrison doesn’t seem to notice the correlation. For the past twenty minutes he’s been steadily munching his Big Belly Burger and watching the water rush under the nearby bridge with a fond smile, like this is how he normally spends his Tuesday afternoons.

“For. You know. That time that I- um. Messed up that. Uh. Thing.”

“Mr. Allen.” Dr. Wells puts down his burger, delicately arranging the wrapper and the bun on his lap. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Right. Yes. That.” Barry’s cheeks are heating, but he has no idea what to say. Either Harrison remembers, and he’s being cruel, or he doesn’t. Which would probably be worse. So Barry blurts, “I wanted to stay.”

In typical Dr. Wells fashion, a line creases his forehead, and Barry can’t figure out if he’s annoyed or mystified or some mixture of the two. “Barry. You seem…unsettled. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No. I mean, yes. Just. I wanted to stay. Is all.”

“Stay where, exactly?”

“With you. I, uh. I wanted to stay with you.” The burn along the bridge of his nose tells Barry he’s officially bright red, but he can’t shake the hurt way Harrison asked him not to leave.

Dr. Wells’s eyebrows practically shoot in his hairline. “That’s very…forward of you.”

And now the foremost scientist of the time thinks that Barry Allen is trying to get into his pants.

He’s not wrong, exactly, but that doesn’t make it any less awkward. Barry lifts himself onto his knees, facing Dr. Wells’s wheelchair directly.

No time like the present to bite the bullet, right?

“I fucked up. I went back-“

Dr. Wells’s eyes narrow. “Tell me you’re not going to finish that sentence the way I think you are.”

Barry closes his mouth.

“You know better than to mess with the time stream, Mr. Allen. I’ve taught you better.”

Barry realizes that for all of Harrison’s grumpiness, it was different then than it is now, with the way that Dr. Wells gets sometimes; voice growly with thunder and the lines around his mouth deepening into canyons.

“It’s not like I meant to. I’m still getting a hang of this. Of all of this. And-“ he cuts himself off.

“And?” Dr. Wells prompts, expression dark and guarded. His burger is congealing on his thigh.

“I. I need to tell you what I did.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It affects you-“

“Me? How many days back did you travel.”

Barry grinds his teeth together, making a face.

“Months?” Dr. Wells guesses.

Helplessly, Barry admits, “More like years.”

“ _Barry_ ,” Dr. Wells exhales.

He’s watching Barry with fondness and exasperation, but his face is growing paler by the second, realization and surprise trekking across his features. Barry says, “You remember, don’t you?”

Mutely, Dr. Wells nods.

Barry can’t help but ask, “Do you regret it?”

“There’s nothing to regret,” Dr. Wells replies, and if there is a tremor of uncertainty in his voice, Barry lets it slide.

He places his hand on Dr. Wells’s knee, terrified, even though the other man is numb to the touch. He repeats, “Dr. Wells – Harrison – I didn’t want to leave. I’m sorry.”

Understanding widens Harrison’s eyes. He reaches up and traces Barry’s cheekbone, gentle, but not tentative. “Apology accepted, Mr. Allen.”

“Can I-“ Barry halts and starts, again. He’s so nervous that his heart is a hummingbird in his chest. “I know that Tess is gone now. I know it’s been years for you, but for me it was yesterday and. I miss you. Can we try again?”

He doesn’t even have to finish his sentence, because Harrison is cupping his face with both hands, pulling him forward on his knees until he’s practically on top of him. The Big Belly Burger falls by the wayside, forgotten in the grass as Dr. Wells kisses him.

He kisses him and Barry fractures.

He can feel the speed force thrumming through his veins. Every cell, every bone reverbs with the way he shatters, becoming a part of the larger whole, of time and the spaces between their bodies and the lightning in their eyes.

They pull back, gasping, and Barry has to right himself, to grasp the edge of Harrison’s wheelchair to keep himself from teetering over the side of the riverbank. Even as he catches his breath, Barry is electrified.

He stares past Dr. Wells’s dark head at the waves crashing against the rocks below, a rhythmic beat to their silent conquest, their minute erosion of Central City’s shores. Dr. Wells sits below him, in front of him, one hand heavy at Barry’s wrist.

He says, “We can start all over, Mr. Allen.”

And Barry knows that this is not the same man he fell in love with.

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo I was going to post this as one long fic and then I basically decided fuck the police and now it is broken into pieces. Obviously takes place before they figure out who Reverse Flash is. But I need y'all to suspend your belief the eensiest teensiest bit, because I know the tsunami to figuring out Wells is a bad, bad man is a pretty short time frame (like, uh, five minutes), and this needs to take place right in between there for reasons. Let's pretend it stretched out? 
> 
> What else? I like to pretend that Earth-1 real!Wells is a lot like a less angry version of Earth-2 Wells, because Earth-2 version of people seem to be slightly more outlandish versions of their Earth-1 selves. So if he seems less like Eobard, that's because, of course, he's not. 
> 
> I also played a little bit with dates because even though Tom's over fifty, my friend who was mathing for me decided she wanted him to be forty five, and I said cool idc, I am easy like that. I don't remember why Tess and Harrison owned a lab in Maryland at some point, but if the wiki page says it, it must be true, so I'm rolling with that, and obviously later they move back to Starling and get murdered like everyone else in that poor, forsaken city, the end. 
> 
> Whew. That's a lot of notes. Last one: never give me a cat, because I will clearly name it Bunion.
> 
> (P.S. Yes, the ship is the Waverider. No, it will not come back. It's busy housing domestic spats and sexual tension.)


End file.
